(Not So) Good Morning
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Ike has a hard time sleeping. Kenny and Kyle's relationship doesn't exactly help his insomnia, but it does make for awkward breakfast conversation. K2!


These mornings always play out the same, like they're reading from a script, lines memorised beyond the need for cue cards. Sure, the breakfast loadout varies day to day, sometimes served smoked lox on a toasted bagel, other times greeted by _matzo brei_ with a side of greasy latkes, but the conversation never changes. Ike takes his spot at the table, after fetching a black cup of coffee, and listens to his mother speculate, "Ike, _bubbeleh_ , ya look exhausted! Did ya have trouble sleeping again?"

Shock and concern always ring in his mother's voice, reflect in her hazel eyes. Yet, no matter what colour he sees, whether brown or green, Ike can't help but wonder, wonder if she knows. When this first started happening, Sheila rushed him to the doctor, who prescribed him sleep aid after sleep aid, strengthening the dosage each time. But, no matter what drug manifested in his system, Ike still woke up, in the middle of the night, to the same _noise_ his parents always slept through. It must be easier for her, concluding his insomnia incurable, rather than notice the pattern between Ike's dark circles and his brother's uncanny glow.

"Yeah Ma," He says, tone leaden and low. He scratches an eye, drowsiness weighing at his lids, and takes a sip of bitter caffeine, praying the spike can carry him through the day. Sheila sighs, a heave of resignation, and continues setting the table, laying out a placemat and silverware for her elder son. Meanwhile, Ike picks up his fork, glares down at his food. Absently, he pokes at the yolk, jiggling the yellow blob until one prong penetrates, and yellow gushes and runs over thick whites. Then, he hears the tell-tale creak of the top step, cringes at the sound of not one but two sets of footsteps dragging down the stairs. Ike narrows his eyes, glowering down at the blue stoneware plate, and prays for a reprimand he knows will never come.

"Kyle, you're up!" Sheila beams, walking out of his view. She takes three quick strides, then pauses, noticing an extra _guest_ at his side, "Kenny, what're you doing here?"

Ike bites his lip, stabs at the bleeding eggs. Kenny _Brother-Fucking_ McCormick, here once again. Way back, when Ike's sleep schedule was still intact, he was happy for Kyle, happy that he finally found another idiot who complimented him in all the right ways. In their own stupid way, they were goddamn _adorable_ , almost sickeningly so. But that faded fast, once the appetites of two horny teenagers manifested into LOUD and OBNOXIOUS sexual antics. Most of which, might he add, occurred in Kyle's room: _the room_ _right next to his_.

"Oh, Kenny's parents got in a bad fight last night," Kyle's an awful liar, his voice on the verge of cracking, trembling with the trepidation of being caught. Yet their mother ignores it, his suspicious timbre, the dark and shiny hickeys on his neck. She just watches Kyle's lips twitch into a nervous smile, as his hand slyly brushes against Kenny's, milking the 'caring boyfriend' angle, as though their relationship was oh so _innocent_ , "I let 'im stay over."

More like, Kyle texted him, hot and hard at one in the morning. Or, hell, maybe Kenny just knock-knock-knocked on his window, with a retarded smirk on his lips and a condom hanging from his teeth. Ike isn't privy to the visuals—nor does he _ever_ want to be—but the walls of their house just aren't thick enough to block out the _moaning_ , the _yelling_ , the nauseating _dirty talk_ and the borderline disturbing _begging_. As vaguely impressive as their stamina is, there is no reason he should know what either of their orgasms sound like, nor should he be subjected to this breed of cruel and unusual torment night after night.

"I'm real sorry, Mrs B," Kenny feigns sincerity, gives Sheila a pair of big blue puppy dog eyes. He wraps an arm around Kyle's waist, pulls him close to his side. Kyle leans against him, manipulating Sheila with saccharine displays of affection. Kenny's acting skill far surpasses his brother's, sounding genuine when he adds, "I shoulda given a lil' warning."

When will they give him the courtesy of a _lil warning_ , huh? When the fuck is Kyle going to shoot him a message telling him that, _hey_ , Kenny's coming and unless he wants an earful Ike should high-tail it to _anywhere else_? Or maybe when are they going to use Kenny's house as the arena for the screwing marathon and give Ike the damn night to sleep? Better yet, when will Sheila and Gerald finally catch the two in the act and understand Ike's pain and suffering?!

"Don't be silly, you're practically part of the family," She buys into it, too elated by her son's happiness to notice she's being suckered, played like a damn fiddle on the roof, "C'mon I'll make another plate. In the meantime, help yourself to a seat at the table, boys."

" _Practically part of the family_ ," Ike mutters, under his breath, under the clicking soles of his mother's heels. With no end in sight, Kenny probably will be part of the family, the couple taking some hyphenated name, meshing Jewish and Irish together and giving their future children a hellish amount to bubble in on their standardised tests. And maybe then, once Kyle moves out, Ike can forgive him and Kenny for all they've done; but that isn't today.

"What was that, young man?" Sheila snaps, with a click of her heels.

Ike swallows the urge, to scream out his problems, air his grievances before the offenders at large. But he knows it would be pointless, only earn him an extra load of chores and a week or two's grounding. And those two would get off scot-free, because who has the heart to break up such a lovely freaking pair? He siphons off a bit of egg, popping it into his mouth and replying, "Nothing, Ma."

He feels Sheila's eyes on his back, as she bustles by, clacks her way into the kitchen. Once she disappears beyond the archway, safely out of earshot, he hears that smug snickering, the wicked victory of South Park's most notorious sex fiends. Ike shuts his eyes, gulps down another swig of coffee, wondering what being an only chid is like. He hears the wet exchange, of _assholes_ _tongue-fucking_ , and thinks how nice having no siblings must be. And restful, too.

"Hey Ike," Kyle's voice smooths, into a prideful purring lull. Ike hunches his shoulders, angrily chewing as they approach. Then, just as he swallows, a hand ruffles his hair, rough and fast. His eyes open wide, shudder ripping through him—oh, please _God_ , say he _washed_ his hands first—eyes flickering over to see Kenny smiling down at him, "Mornin' _twerp_."

Ike looks him over, takes in the messy blond hair, the bites garnishing his neck and shoulders, the cocky gleam in his sky-blue eyes. The goofy grin completes it, his advertisement of 'I fucked your big brother so hard he melted into a quivering needy mess'. Ike takes another sip of coffee, then spits, _"Don't call me that."_

"Yikes," Kenny takes a step back, glances over at Kyle, "Someone's cranky."

Ike turns his head, finds his brother pulling out a chair on the other side of the table. Purple splotches decorate his skin, Kenny's mouth permanently colouring his complexion. Crimson curls fray out in every conceivable direction, and a satiated glaze coats green eyes. Kyle shoots Ike a look, "Be nice, he's a guest."

"Your guest, not mine," Ike grumbles, twirling the fork in his hand. His eyes squint into slits as he watches, watches Kenny sit down in the chair, and Kyle plop onto his lap. No sight could be more cloying, than Kyle resting an arm around Kenny's shoulders, resting a cheek on his head, and Kenny snaking an arm around, hand out of view. No, no, no— _this isn't happening_. Ike slams his mug on the table, loud bang making the two of them jump. His face hardens, shadows cast over his eyes as he snarls, _"You're both disgusting and I hate you."_

He watches their eyes fill with insult, feeding off their offended glowers. Without another word, Ike turns around, and heads back upstairs. At least with them spooning each other breakfast, he can get some fucking sleep. _At fucking_ _last_.

* * *

A/N: I feel like I haven't written anything happy in some time. Guess I changed that, but it's not so happy for Ike! Thanks for reading : )


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